"Macquarie wasn't a coward," remonstrated the drunkard, softly, but in an injured tone.

"What's up with you, anyway?" yelled the publican. "What yer growling at? D'ye want a row? Get out if yer can't be agreeable!"

The boozer swung his back to the bar, hooked himself on by his elbows, and looked vacantly out of the door.

"I've got--another point for the defence," he muttered. "It's always best--it's always best to keep the last point to--the last."

"Oh, Lord! Well, out with it! _Out with it_!"

"_Macquarie's dead_! That--that's what it is!"

Everyone moved uneasily: Sally Thompson turned the other side to the bar, crossed one leg behind the other, and looked down over his hip at the sole and heel of his elastic-side--the barman rinsed the gla.s.ses vigorously--Longbones shuffled and dealt on the top of a cask, and some of the others gathered round him and got interested--Barcoo thought he heard his horse breaking away, and went out to see to it, followed by Box-o'-Tricks and a couple more, who thought that it might be one of their horses.

Someone--a tall, gaunt, determined-looking bushman, with square features and haggard grey eyes--had ridden in unnoticed through the scrub to the back of the shanty and dismounted by the window.

When Barcoo and the others re-entered the bar it soon became evident that Sally Thompson had been thinking, for presently he came to the general rescue as follows:

"There's a blessed lot of tommy-rot about dead people in this world--a lot of d.a.m.ned old-woman nonsense. There's more sympathy wasted over dead and rotten skunks than there is justice done to straight, honest-livin'

chaps. I don't b'lieve in this gory sentiment about the dead at the expense of the living. I b'lieve in justice for the livin'--and the dead too, for that matter--but justice for the livin'. Macquarie was a bad egg, and it don't alter the case if he was dead a thousand times."

There was another breath of relief in the bar, and presently somebody said: "Yer tight, Sally!"

"Good for you, Sally, old man!" cried Box-o'-Tricks, taking it up. "An', besides, I don't b'lieve Macquarie is dead at all. He's always dyin', or being reported dead, and then turnin' up again. Where did you hear about it, Awful?"

The Example ruefully rubbed a corner of his roof with the palm of his hand.

"There's--there's a lot in what you say, Sally Thompson," he admitted slowly, totally ignoring Box-o'-Tricks. "But--but---'

"Oh, we've had enough of the old fool," yelled Barcoo. "Macquarie was a spieler, and any man that ud be his mate ain't much better."

"Here, take a drink and dry up, yer ole ha.s.s!" said the man behind the bar, pushing a bottle and gla.s.s towards the drunkard. "D'ye want a row?"

The old man took the bottle and gla.s.s in his shaking bands and painfully poured out a drink.

"There's a lot in what Sally Thompson says," he went on, obstinately, "but--but," he added in a strained tone, "there's another point that I near forgot, and none of you seemed to think of it--not even Sally Thompson nor--nor Box-o'-Tricks there."

Stiffner turned his back, and Barcoo spat viciously and impatiently.

"Yes," drivelled the drunkard, "I've got another point for--for the defence--of my mate, Macquarie--"

"Oh, out with it! Spit it out, for G.o.d's sake, or you'll bust!" roared Stiffner. "What the blazes is it?"

"HIS MATE'S ALIVE!" yelled the old man. "Macquarie's mate's alive!

That's what it is!"

He reeled back from the bar, dashed his gla.s.s and hat to the boards, gave his pants, a hitch by the waistband that almost lifted him off his feet, and tore at his shirt-sleeves.

"Make a ring, boys," he shouted. "His mate's alive! Put up your hands, Barcoo! By G.o.d, his mate's alive!"

Someone had turned his horse loose at the rear and had been standing by the back door for the last five minutes. Now he slipped quietly in.

"Keep the old fool off, or he'll get hurt," snarled Barcoo.

Stiffner jumped the counter. There were loud, hurried words of remonstrance, then some stump-splitting oaths and a scuffle, consequent upon an attempt to chuck the old man out. Then a crash. Stiffner and Box-o'-Tricks were down, two others were holding Barcoo back, and someone had pinned Awful Example by the shoulders from behind.

"Let me go!" he yelled, too blind with pa.s.sion to notice the movements of surprise among the men before him. "Let me go! I'll smash--any man--that--that says a word again' a mate of mine behind his back.

Barcoo, I'll have your blood! Let me go! I'll, I'll, I'll-- Who's holdin' me? You--you---"

"It's Macquarie, old mate!" said a quiet voice.

Barcoo thought he heard his horse again, and went out in a hurry.

Perhaps he thought that the horse would get impatient and break loose if he left it any longer, for he jumped into the saddle and rode off.

BALDY THOMPSON

Rough, squarish face, curly auburn wig, bushy grey eyebrows and moustache, and grizzly stubble--eyes that reminded one of Dampier the actor. He was a squatter of the old order--new chum, swagman, drover, shearer, super, pioneer, c.o.c.ky, squatter, and finally bank victim. He had been through it all, and knew all about it.

He had been in parliament, and wanted too again; but the men mistrusted him as Thompson, M.P., though they swore by him as old Baldy Thompson the squatter. His hobby was politics, and his politics were badly boxed.

When he wasn't cursing the banks and government he cursed the country.

He cursed the Labour leaders at intervals, and seemed to think that he could run the unions better than they could. Also, he seemed to think that he could run parliament better than any premier. He was generally voted a hard case, which term is mostly used in a kindly sense out back.

He was always grumbling about the country. If a shearer or rouseabout was good at argument, and a bit of a politician, he hadn't to slave much at Thompson's shed, for Baldy would argue with him all day and pay for it.

"I can't put on any more men," he'd say to travellers. "I can't put on a lot of men to make big cheques when there's no money in the bank to pay 'em--and I've got all I can do to get tucker for the family. I sh.o.r.e nothing but burrs and gra.s.s-seed last season, and it didn't pay carriage. I'm just sending away a flock of sheep now, and I won't make threepence a head on 'em. I had twenty thousand in the bank season before last, and now I can't count on one. I'll have to roll up my swag and go on the track myself next."

"All right, Baldy," they'd say, "git out your blooming swag and come along with us, old man; we'll stick to you and see you through."

"I swear I'd show you round first," he'd reply. "Go up to the store and get what rations you want. You can camp in the huts to-night, and I'll see you in the morning."

But most likely he'd find his way over after tea, and sit on his heels in the cool outside the hut, and argue with the swagmen about unionism and politics. And he'd argue all night if he met his match.

The track by Baldy Thompson's was reckoned as a good tucker track, especially when a dissolution of parliament was threatened. Then the guileless traveller would casually let Baldy know that he'd got his name on the electoral list, and show some interest in Baldy's political opinions, and oppose them at first, and finally agree with them and see a lot in them--be led round to Baldy's way of thinking, in fact; and ultimately depart, rejoicing, with a full nose-bag, and a quiet grin for his mate.

There are many camp-fire yarns about old Baldy Thompson.

One New Year the shearers--shearing stragglers--roused him in the dead of night and told him that the shed was on fire. He came out in his shirt and without his wig. He sacked them all there and then, but of course they went to work as usual next morning. There is something sad and pathetic about that old practical joke--as indeed there is with all bush jokes. There seems a quiet sort of sadness always running through outback humour--whether alleged or otherwise.

There's the usual yarn about a jackaroo mistaking Thompson for a brother rouser, and asking him whether old Baldy was about anywhere, and Baldy said:

"Why, are you looking for a job?"

"Yes, do you think I stand any show? What sort of a boss is Baldy?"